


Ambivalence

by infernalandmortal



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-19 03:49:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11889372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infernalandmortal/pseuds/infernalandmortal
Summary: All the ways Murphy realizes he loves her, spelled out one moment at a time.





	Ambivalence

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a thing I found on Twitter. Un-betaed, so all errors are mine. Enjoy!

**If yelling at her in an argument doesn’t make your throat burn like you just downed six shots, you’re not in love with her.**

The first fight they have is in his house, two months before he turns eighteen, three months after they started dating. He comes home drunk and angry because his mother had been drunk and angry and he had figured he would take her best hard liquor to the edge of town, where his intoxication can’t hurt anyone until the morning after. He downed the whole bottle while staring out at the highway, counting the cars until the world was too blurry to see properly.

He counts on his revenge making his mother angry. He counts on being left alone to simmer in his own self-destruction for at least the next twelve hours. He doesn’t count on his girlfriend picking the lock to his back door.

She’s there when he gets home, leaning against the fridge and watching him with the soft expression he hates.

“What do you want?” He asks. He can hear his voice slurring, can’t bring himself to care. His mother is asleep at the end of the house. Murphy hopes he wakes her up. This is all her damn fault.

“You’re drunk,” she says, a sad statement said in a sigh. The unsaid  _ again  _ at the end of the sentence hangs in the air. “You need to stop this, John.”

That soft voice is back. He hates it and, in the angry, wavering moment, he hates her. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he snarls, turning on her. She’s at the other end of the kitchen in an instant, backed into the corner where the pantry door and counter meet. He vaguely remembers that this is a bad idea, that something happened to her to make her fearful of angry men and small spaces. But that doesn’t matter, not now.

“It means that you’re taking your hatred of the world out on yourself. You’re hurting yourself and I’m not going to let you do it anymore.” She keeps her voice even, but her eyes are wide, terrified. “If you’re going to keep hitting the self-destruct button every time I get a little too close or every time your mother hurts you, I’m out.”

“Fine,” he spits. His hands tremble. He’s not seeing her right; the room is blurry, moving. “Then get the hell out. Don’t tell me how to live my life.”

“There are better ways to handle it than this, John.” She’s nearly pleading with him now. “That’s why I’m here. You can call me.”

“I don’t need you.” His voice is hard, lifeless, but the words taste like vomit coming up. “I don’t want you, either. You could be anyone and I’d still say that I loved you.”

She flinches as though someone’s punched her in the gut. He looks at her and feels nothing, just rage. “Get out,” he says again.

She goes still, freezes entirely, her chest barely even moving. He sees the disbelief in her eyes but his intoxication keeps him from caring.

“Okay.” Her voice is soft. She steps away from the corner, around him, and he doesn’t move until she carefully closes the door behind her.

The effects of the alcohol leaves him in a rush. It’s like the lack of her presence is akin to dousing himself in cold water. His stomach churns as the room solidifies under his feet, and he staggers back to slide down against the wall, resting his head against the cool plaster.

His throat burns, but not from the vodka.  _ What did I do? _ he thinks, terror paralyzing him. She’s good at running, too good.  _ What if she never comes back? What if she’s left me for good this time? _

He realizes he’s sobbing, whispering apologies into the dark and clenching his jaw so tightly it hurts. When Emori returns three hours later with red-rimmed eyes and a hoarse voice, all he can do is struggle to her feet and hold her close.

“New rule,” Emori says against his chest. “We don’t walk away when we’re fighting. Not ever again.”

Murphy nods, kissing the top of her head. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers again, needing to know that she understands, that she knows he never meant it.

Emori sighs, her reluctant arms finally wrapping around his waist. “I know.”

She sits him down at the kitchen table and makes him drink two glasses of water and take some Advil. He watches as she pours all the alcohol in his mother’s house down the drain.

He never touches a drop after that.

* * *

**If her eyes can’t make you stop in your tracks and think about what you are about to say next, you’re not in love with her.**

“Come on, John!” She’s laughing down at him from the crest of the hill, looking up at the sky, squinting into the mid-afternoon sun. Behind her, Jasper and Monty crest the hill and run down the other side, shouting something unintelligible while Octavia hurries behind them.

“You know physical activity isn’t my strong suit, Mori,” he gripes good-naturedly, letting a wayward bush branch swing back to hit Bellamy in the stomach. He smirks when he hears Bellamy’s grunted  _ hey! _

“The view is worth it. Trust me.” She turns her back to him, shading her eyes with her badass hand, and he climbs the last few feet to join her.

It is breathtaking - a sweeping view of the mountain valley, the green trees peppered with autumn colors that didn’t get the memo that it was only the beginning of September. Murphy watches Emori’s face, her expression of awe and wonder, and begins to question whether or not she could be just anybody.

He's still coming down off the fight they had two weeks ago. His nightmares show him a world where she doesn't come back. He is well-aware of her forgiveness, of her willingness to take everything that he is and hold it close. 

It's enough to make something well up in his chest, pushing against his heart until it races. He wonders if it's love. He's never loved anyone before, not like this. He wonders if he's too broken for such a thing. 

Emori turns to look at him, eyebrow raised, and it occurs to him that she asked him a question while he was so lost in thought. He starts to apologize, ask her to repeat herself, but her eyes start to shift in the sun, going from endless brown to clear amber, and all he can think to say in that moment is  _ I love you.  _

It's an endless moment before he clears his throat, saying “sorry, what did you say? I must've spaced out.”

She gives him a funny look, wraps her arms around his shoulders, and kisses his cheek. “You're cute when you're tired.”

He's not tired. Just confused. But he'll let her think whatever she wants until he sorts out just what she means to him. 

_ i think i’m in love with Emori,  _ he texts Raven later that day.

_ No shit,  _ she replies.  _ What do you mean “you think?” _

_ how can you tell if you’re in love with someone?  _ he asks.

It takes Raven minutes to reply.  _ I don’t know. But if you ask me, you’re in love. Bellamy agrees. _

Murphy sighs. He has to figure this out. He has to.

* * *

**If her laugh doesn’t make you tense up your knuckles thinking about never hearing it again, you’re not in love with her.**

Murphy rarely checks his voicemail. In his defense, it’s because he never gets calls unless he’s late for work or Raven is really angry and needs to rant. So when he sees the little light on his phone blinking, it takes him far too long to remember how to retrieve the short message.

_ “Hey Murphy, it’s Clarke. Um… Emori’s here. In my mom’s hospital, I mean. There was an accident. It’s pretty bad. I- Her brother’s here, but I figured you’d want to be here too. She’s in surgery right now but if you could get here soon...just in case, I think that would be good. Okay, bye.” _

Murphy’s blood runs cold. He nearly drops his phone in his haste to jam it into his pocket, grab his keys and race to his car. The hospital is twenty minutes away. He’s going to make the drive in ten.

It’s a small miracle that the cops don’t pull him over, but he barely even appreciates it until he peels into the parking lot, races into the waiting room, and is told by Jackson that he can’t see Emori for close to three hours, but that he’s welcome to wait.

Otan is the only other person in the waiting room. Murphy sits a few seats away and regards him out of the corner of his eye. He looks nothing like his sister: he’s pale and she’s dark, he’s open-faced and she’s one of the most guarded people Murphy knows.

“What happened?” Murphy asks finally, breaking the silence.

Otan runs his hand over his face, over the scars Emori says came from an electrical fire. “The car rolled. She got glass in her face, arms, neck and torso. Abby said her ribs were broken, poking into her organs. And she blew out her knee.”

His voice is emotionless, his eyes far away and fixed on a spot on the floor. Now Murphy sees the reflection of his sister.

“Who was driving?” There’s no anger in his voice but plenty in his mind. He can only imagine her pain, how she must be feeling, and there’s nothing in the world he wants more than to make the driver feel what she feels.

Otan looks up and says nothing. He doesn’t need to. The cuts on his face and the bandages on his shoulder tell Murphy everything he needs to know.

He doesn’t do anything. He wants to, wants to break Otan’s ribs and beat him until he bleeds. But he doesn’t. He’s numb and scared and really really pissed, but he doesn’t look at Otan, much less think about him.

The only thing he lets himself think about is Emori, how small she is and how hurt she must be. He runs through the things he knows that can help her - she hates being alone in big beds, she can handle physical pain as long as there’s an end in sight, she really hates to cry - and tells himself over and over that he’s not leaving her, not as long as she’s in this hospital, not as long as she wants him there.

At hour two, he pulls out his phone and thumbs through his camera roll. He feels Otan’s eyes on him, looking over his shoulder, but he ignores that, pressing play on the first video he can find.

_ “Welcome to Cooking with the Lovebirds,” Raven teases from behind the camera, turning Murphy’s phone to show him rummaging through the Blake’s fridge, then panning it to Emori, who’s sitting atop their counter eating Ritz crackers out of a box. _

_ Emori covers her face with her big hand. “Turn that off, Raven,” she says, a small laugh in her voice. _

_ Murphy reaches over to take the camera, pointing it right back at his girlfriend. “This is my lovely assistant, Emori,” he says half-sarcastically. “She doesn’t know how to cook.” _

_ “I do too!” she protests indignantly. _

_ “No, you really don’t.” _

_ She laughs, her smiling lighting up the room. _

There's more to the video but Murphy pauses it, looking at Emori’s joyful face, clean and honest in that moment. He thinks about the worst-case scenario, about heart monitors going dead and lifeless eyes, and feels his chest start to ache. He plays the video again and again, closing his eyes and listening to her laugh.

Beside him, Otan starts to fold under the weight of regret.  _ Good,  _ Murphy thinks.  _ Let him. _

When Jackson finally lets Murphy into her room, he nearly cries at the sight of her. Her face is cut and bruised, her big hand is wrapped in what seems to be a cast, but she’s awake and, though her eyes are full of pain, they’re still the most beautiful things he’s ever seen.

“Hey,” he whispers, touching her cheek softly. “How do you feel?”

Her face twists slightly as she struggles into a more comfortable position. “Hurts,” she grinds out against gritted teeth. “And my head feels funny.”

“Anesthetic will do that to you.” He helps her settle back into the pillows, squeezing her shoulder. “Is there anything I can do?”

She turns her head into his arm, closing her eyes. “Can you stay?” Her voice is so small, he almost doesn’t hear her. She seems so vulnerable in this big bed, this sterile place. “I don’t want to be alone.”

He pulls up a chair without another word, holding her small hand and running his thumb over her bloodstained knuckles. “You’re gonna be okay,” he tells her, kissing her hand, each of her fingers, smiling when she gives a weak laugh. “I promise.”

“Okay,” she sighs, already nearly asleep. Murphy waits until her breathing evens out and her eyelids stop fluttering before he rests his head on the mattress and cries.

_ I love you,  _ he thinks fiercely, because he’s more sure now than ever that love is what he feels when he looks at her.  _ I love you. I love you. I love you. _

* * *

**If it only hurts her when she cries, you’re not in love.**

“I can’t do it!” she shouts, slamming her hand against the wall, voice shrill in frustration and pain. “John, I can’t!”

Murphy takes her hand away from the wall, wrapping his fingers around her wrist and pecking her on the cheek from behind. “Yes, you can. Try again.”

Physical therapy is brutal, not because Emori’s injuries were so abnormal, but because Emori lacks the patience and sense to see it through. She’s convinced that everything will go back to normal, that she can grit her teeth and bear through the pain, but it doesn’t work that way. Murphy knows it, but Emori is stubborn. That’s why he comes over to her house every time she’s supposed to be doing the exercises, even though the sight of her brother makes him want to commit homicide.

“Try again,” he says again, softly. “You can do it.”

She leans back against him and he wraps his arms around her waist. “I can’t.” It’s only when her voice breaks that he realizes she’s crying.

He can count on one hand the amount of times he’s seen Emori cry, which is why this comes as such a shock to him. “Hey,” he soothes, turning her so she can bury her face in his chest. “It’s okay. You’re doing fine.”

She shakes her head. “It  _ hurts _ .” She sounds so petulant and scared that Murphy thinks his heart might crack in half. “What if it never stops hurting?”

Murphy doesn’t know what to do other than kiss her forehead, her cheek, her temple, and eventually limp her over to the couch. She collapses against him, silent tears rolling over her cheeks. Murphy is quick to chase them away, knowing she hates to cry, knowing that she won’t want Otan to see.

“I hate this,” she confesses. “I want everything to go back to normal.”

Murphy nods, not saying anything, just letting her talk. She rarely says what’s she’s thinking, only the final product. He loves her mind, how scheming it is, how smart she is about everything. He loves seeing behind the scenes, too, learning how she processes the world, how she thinks, what she sees. 

“Otan and I have barely talked,” she continues. “He feels guilty. I think I should be angry with him, right? Because it’s his fault. He wasn’t sober. But it’s my fault too, for getting in the car.” She looks up at him. “I should have called you.”

Murphy runs his fingers through her hair. “I always want you to call me. I’ll always come for you.” It sounds cheesy, and there’s definitely an unintentional innuendo there that Emori considers exploring, judging by the quick flash of mischief in her eyes, but he means it with every fiber of his being. “But this wasn’t your fault. Shit happens.”

Emori leans into him, letting him adjust so she’s tucked comfortably against his side, injured leg leaning against her beaten coffee table. “I’m sorry. For this,” she gestures to herself, to her leg. “Hell of a way to celebrate six months.”

“Hey, we’re not celebrating yet. I have a whole week to plan something special.” He cuts her off before she can protest. “And I will. You’re going to have to let me.”

She leans up to kiss him, gentle and quick. “Fine. But I get to plan our one-year anniversary.”

Murphy nods, heart warm at the thought that she’s planning on them lasting. “Deal,” he says, leaning down to kiss her properly, heart hammering out a steady  _ I love you, I love you, I love you. _

* * *

**If her voice can’t calm your worst anxiety attacks and make you want to listen to anything she has to say, you’re not in love with her.**

Murphy slams the door to his room, locking it and leaning against it with all his strength, one hand on the knob, the other one at his throat.

His mother had choked him in a blind rage. He replays the moment in his head, equal shock and disbelief coloring the memory around the edges. Her hands around his neck were strong, a reminder of a rope and a tree and the people he thought were his friends turning against him. She had borne down hard on him and it was only when his eyes started to close and his vision started to dim that she let up.

He had run to the other end of the house and not looked back.

He hates people touching his neck - with Emori as the exception - and he hates losing air, hates being so completely at someone’s mercy. He can’t breathe and the room is spinning and somewhere, in the rational part of his mind, he knows this is a panic attack and that he’ll be okay, but right now it feels like he’s dying.

Shaking, gasping, he fumbles for his phone and calls her. She answers on the second ring, voice soft, happy. “Hi, John. What’s going on?”

“Emori,” he chokes out. It’s all he can do to keep breathing and keep the phantom feelings of ropes and fingers away.

“What’s wrong?” He can imagine her brow furrowing, her eyes narrowing. “Are you alright?”

He shakes his head, then remembers she can’t see him. “No,” he forces out. “She- my mom- she choked me. I can’t-” he coughs. His heart is racing. “I can’t breathe. There’s still hands around my neck, I feel them, I can’t-”

“Okay.” She interrupts his nonsensical rambling. Her voice is a sigh, a gentle rustle of words against his ear. “Okay. John, close your eyes. Listen to me. Nothing else matters right now except my voice.”

He obeys, sitting on the floor and leaning against his bed, the phone clutched in his hand, pressed to his ear. “I want you to take one breath, as deep as you can. Hold it for four seconds, then let it out.”

He tries to breathe deeply, but his lungs are constricting and he’s shaking too much to suck in an even amount of air. He settles for what he can do and hopes it’s enough. “Good.” Her voice releases the tension in his shoulders, his arms, but his throat still feels tight, like the noose is still there, like he’s waiting for the box to be kicked from under his feet. “How’s your throat? Are the hands still there?”

He nods. “Yes.”

“Close your eyes,” she says again. “Imagine I’m next to you. Replace the fingers with my lips. You like it when I kiss your neck, right?”

Despite all this, a laugh works its way to the surface. “Yeah, I do.”

“Okay then. It’s just me. There’s no fingers, no rope, no bruises.” He imagines her sitting beside him, fingers laced with his, lips against his neck, his shoulder, his cheek. How many times had they sat like that after her nightmares, his flashbacks, after Ontari? “Better?”

“A little.” He hears her keys clatter on the other end of the phone. A sudden terror flashes through him. “Don’t hang up,” he whispers, free hand tightening on his knee.

“I won’t. I’m coming to you. I’ll stay on the line until I get there.”

“Use the back door,” he remembers to say. “She’s in the living room. She’ll see you come in.”

Emori stays with him, reminding him to breathe, pulling him back from the dark things that live in the fearful parts of his mind. When she opens the door to his room - damn her and her lockpick set - he scrambles to his feet and reaches for her.

“Hey,” she says, soft against his shoulder. “Come to bed, okay?”

He obediently kicks off his shoes while Emori turns off the light and pulls back his threadbare covers. He buries his face in her chest while she trails her fingers over his face, through his hair, across his neck.

“Are there bruises?” he asks, wanting to know for some sick reason he isn’t ready to consider.

Emori sighs. “Yes.” She presses her lips gently to where he assumes one of them is, and something dark and heavy sweeps through him, making him shudder. All he wants now, at this desperate, needy moment, is for her to kiss him, to take him over and make him forget about everything in the world that hates him.

He wants to tell her, wants to ask her what she wants, but he’s asleep before the words come out, soothed by her hands in his hair, her even breathing, and her honest promise that she’ll kill anyone who tries to touch him.

* * *

**If her smile doesn’t make your chest quake and your lungs shrink but feel refreshed all in one motion, you’re not in love with her.**

“What are we all looking at?” Murphy asks, holding the Blake’s door open for Emori before locking it behind them. Raven, Miller, Bellamy, Monty, Harper and Lexa are all crowded around something on the dining room table. Predictably, Emori heads straight for the abandoned package of cookies on the counter.

“Costia’s portfolio,” Raven tells him. “It’s pretty good.”

Costia pushes the black book toward him, leaning back in her seat. “Go on. There’s a couple in there you might like.”

Murphy finds it hard to say no to sweet, earnest Costia, especially when it comes to photography, her hobby-turned-obsession, so he pages through the book, stopping to take in the scenes.

_ Bellamy and Octavia leaning against one another on their couch the night they found out their mother died. _

_ Jasper and Monty, arms slung around one another’s shoulders. _

_ Raven and Luna, hand in hand, looking up at Fourth of July fireworks. _

_ Lexa against a black background, her green eyes staring eerily into the camera. _

Murphy stops at the photo on the opposite page. It’s Emori, sitting on the rail of the old bridge outside of town. Her hair is down, wild and loose around her shoulders, but the best part is that she’s smiling. Not into the camera, of course, but at something just off to the right.

“Shit, she’s beautiful,” he murmurs aloud before he can help it. Bellamy lets out a surprised guffaw, Miller lets out a loud laugh, and Emori looks toward them questioningly, mouth full of Oreo.

Costia winks at him. “You can have it, if you want. I have a copy I can bring you tomorrow.”

Murphy nods absently, turning the page to the next photo amid wolf-whistles and cheers. It’s a picture of them at the senior prom. Costia had been there, taking photos for the school, but she must have followed them outside. It’s a little creepy, but Murphy can’t bring himself to care as he regards the picture.

They’re kissing, her arms wrapped around his neck, his hands at her waist. Her eyes are closed and she looks  _ happy _ , her cheeks flushed, the corners of her mouth curving up in an almost-smile.

“So that’s what we look like,” Emori murmurs in his ear, looking over his shoulder.

He turns suddenly and kisses her, ignoring their friends’ watchful eyes, focusing for a moment on the surprised sound she makes, the taste of chocolate on her lips, the way it feels to hold her close. When they break apart, Murphy leans his forehead against hers. “I guess so,” he says, a little breathless, and the entire room breaks apart in cheers and catcalls.

She beams up at him, pecking him on the cheek. “I like it,” she says, but he’s too focused on the way her smile steals his breath and gives him life all at once to say anything in response.

The picture of Emori on the bridge makes its way to a frame on his dresser. Emori teases him about it. Murphy wants nothing more than to see it every morning. By now, he knows that he loves her. Beyond a doubt.

He just has to tell her.

* * *

**If taking her clothes off is when you pay the most attention to her, you’re not in love with her at all.**

His favorite thing about making out with her is how she says his name. Granted, every time she calls him John sends a shiver down his spine, but there’s something different about the way she murmurs it against his lips. He’s not exactly sure what it does to him, but he knows it’s good.

Like everything else, they take this slow. Ontari was too recent for him, and there’s a brick wall over what happened in Emori’s past to make her afraid of rough hands. But it’s nice like this, her in his bed, him coaxing out soft sighs and whimpers with his lips and fingers.

Every so often, he pulls away just to look at her. She’s always beautiful, but this is the kind of beautiful only he gets to see: her messy hair, her soft eyes, her swollen lips. He doesn’t care if he ever undresses her. He just wants to please her, wants to make her feel safe, and if this is enough for her, he’ll give it to her until the end of time.

“Hey.” Her admonishment is gentle, teasing. “Less staring.”

“Sorry.” He grins, tickles her sides with the fingers resting at her waist. She giggles and squirms away, mindful of her still-healing knee. He kisses her neck, her shoulder, over her collarbones until she stills under him, her hands coming up to rest on his shoulders.

“Let me sit up for a second,” she murmurs and he lets her, rocking back on his heels - avoiding crushing her ankles - and watching in suspended awe as she pulls the hem of her worn-out shirt up and over her head. She tosses it to the floor and looks at him, plucking at the straps of her simple black bra.

“Is this okay?” she whispers, arms coming up to wrap around her torso. “I know I’m not-”

Murphy reaches forward, tangling his fingers with hers, bring her hand up above her head as he leans over her, kissing her deeply. “Stop. You’re perfect,” he whispers. “You’re so damn beautiful, Emori.” He kisses her chest, her neck, her chin, her nose, her lips. 

She makes  _ that sound _ again and he pulls back just to look. There’s a flush spreading down her cheeks to her chest and she’s practically glowing in the afternoon light peeking in from his blinds and that familiar feeling is welling up inside him, choking him and- “I love you so much.”

She freezes again, the hand that’s held by his twitching. “I- John.” Her lips start to tremble; he isn’t sure if she’s going to laugh or cry. Shock grips him - he didn’t mean to tell her like this.

He’s all but ready to apologize when she speaks. “I love you too,” she says, voice thick, eyes bright with something that looks like hope. “I love your voice.” She pecks him on the lips. “I love your smile.” She runs her lips over his neck. “I love that you trust me with everything that you are.” She kisses him again, deeper this time. “I love you.”

There’s little talking after that, just wandering hands and lips, and the knowledge that Murphy will never be alone again thrumming under his skin. When they fall asleep some time later, her bare back pressed against his bare chest, he can’t help but hope that there will be a day when she is the last thing he sees before he goes to sleep every night.


End file.
